Enchanted
by Tentative Steps
Summary: "My thoughts will echo your name until I see you again" Young Harry and Ruth in a modern setting; complete fluff, and total suspension of disbelief necessary!
1. Stalker definitely a stalker!

**TITLE:** Enchanted  
**RATING:** Provisionally "T", because I don't really know what's going to happen from here!  
**CHARACTERS:** Ruth and Harry  
**SPOILERS:** Nada. This is so ridiculously AU that I don't think it possibly could!  
**SUMMARY:** "My thoughts will echo your name until I see you again" Young Harry and Ruth in a modern setting; complete suspension of disbelief necessary! :)  
**A/N:** Nicola has always said that she was offended at first to be cast as Ruth because Ruth is a lot older than she is; so, for the purposes of this story, the age-gap between Ruth and Harry is only about five years.

Please don't hate me for being so spectacularly AU - pure fluff multi-chap will probably follow... :) :)

Merry Christmas xxx

* * *

"This is me praying that this was the very first page  
Not where the story line ends  
My thoughts will echo your name until I see you again  
These are the words I held back as I was leaving too soon  
I was enchanted to meet you"

_- Enchanted, Taylor Swift_

* * *

**One**

As a rule, it is usually best not to bother Ruth Evershed when she is on her way to the office. This tends only to happen in the late evening anyway, because of the intensity with which she chooses to study, but despite their beauty, the tiny back-allies between her college library and the offices of the student newspaper where she's recently started work as an editor are dark, gloomy and often a little scary in the darkness. It takes a brave soul to walk up to her seemingly at random, when she walks with such purpose, and join her in conversation.

Luckily, then, the man who is now following her with that express purpose was used to facing such hostile foes – and was more than capable of smiling charmingly enough to bamboozle even Ruth for a moment or two at the least.

He knows all about her, of course; he wouldn't be approaching her if he didn't. She is quite remarkable, and quite the most extraordinary person he's ever had the pleasure of having to watch. The most remarkable thing was that he had discovered her all himself. He isn't used to being able to exert that much power, yet, and had been utterly stunned when Karin, his boss and the head of MI5's Counter-Terrorism unit, had allowed him a week to recruit her. They needed a new analyst, Karin had reasoned, and Ms Evershed showed every sign of being more than perfect for the position. Besides, the Grid was a little too full of testosterone at that moment anyway; it would be nice for her to have another woman to work with, aside from the formidable Rosalind, a new temp seconded from 6 who honestly put the fear of God into even Karin from time to time.

And so Harry finds himself in a back-alley outside Corpus Christi College at dusk, hiding in the shadows until the remarkable Ms Evershed has exited the building, several folders piled a little awkwardly in her arms. She walks with purpose, and it takes him a few moments to catch up with her. He follows a step behind her for a few paces before calling out her name; "Ruth?"

She turns on the spot, eyes alight with fire and confusion. "Yes?" she asks, near-glowering at him over the top of her folders. For a second, she almost reminds him of Rosalind, until the friendliness beneath the facade reveals itself in suddenly reddening cheeks under his gaze.

"You _are_ Ruth Evershed, aren't you?" he asks, and she nods a little taken aback. "And I suppose you're on your way to Cherwell at the moment?" he continues. She nods again, momentarily mute. "Can I help you carry anything?"

He doesn't wait for a response, taking the top few off her pile and carrying them comfortably. He watches for a second as she stumbles, readjusts her load, and smiles in a bemused fashion.

"Who are you?" she asks, as they round a corner. He just smiles.

"I've read your book." He tells her. She stares at him, again, utterly bemused.

"B-book?" she stutters.

"Mmm." He nods. "Yes. I've read your book." He reads her expression carefully, and smiles. "I enjoyed it, you know."

"Who are you?" she asks, again.

"Harry Davies." He tells her, without flinching over the false name. "I'm a PhD student at King's in London."

"And my b-book?" she stutters, again, somehow still managing to place one foot before the other.

"Yes. Your book. I read it, and I have to say, I enjoyed it immensely."

"H-how?"

"How do I know who you are?"

She nods, mutely, and he taps his finger against his nose, smiling that charming Harry smile which, experience tells him, will silence any woman for at least a moment. "I'm doing a PhD in Arabic Literature." He tells her. The lies seem to roll off the tongue. "And I'm here for a week to make use of the texts you lovely people have here."

She continues to mutely nod, and so he goes on, parroting the much-practised back-story handed down to him by Malcolm, and old hand on the Grid whose favourite job is creating elaborate fictions for fellow officers.

"Anyway, your bio says you studied Classics at Corpus Christi last year, so I thought I'd take my chances, and I asked around, and there you were."

As the offices of Cherwell come into view, Ruth finally regains her voice, and manages to express what has been bugging her since he spoke the words "your book": "I published under a pseudonym."

He shrugs, again; "I didn't ask for _Ruth Evershed_", he smiles. The glint in his eye forces her to avert her gaze for a moment. "I asked if the beautiful girl who wrote the wonderful novel still studied here. The one who read Classics." He smiles again. "Reception was most friendly. _Ruth Evershed?_ They said. _She's doing her MSt in Classical Languages now. Very bright. Very pretty. Probably heading over to Cherwell in a moment, too._"

"Oh." She says, utterly stumped.

"So, I thought I'd say hello." He tells her. "I recognised you from your dust-jacket photo."

"Oh."

"Besides, I guessed that it wasn't every day you'd come across someone who could tell you how much they enjoyed your novel, in Russian?"

"You can tell me it in Russian, or you enjoyed it in Russian?" she asks, biting back a hint of laughter.

"Я очень много насладился вашим романом, госпожей Evershed. Он замечательно прочитан, и inciteful. Исследование самостоятельно должно принять вам продолжительность жизни."

His accent is nearly perfect, if his translation is a little off. She can't help but smile. "Я радостен" she tells him. "And yes, the research did take me a lifetime. A lifetime of watching bad spy films and reading bad spy novels with my father."

"Ah" he smiles. "They can't have been that bad. Your book was exquisite."

"Charmer." She laughs. "I know nothing about you. I'm not going to accept your critique when I won't take my own mother's!"

They reach Ruth's destination as she says this, and she smiles. "It was nice to meet you, Harry Davies who has read my book and seems to be stalking me. I guess you know why I'm here, too?"

"You're one of the News Editors."

"Stalker. Definitely a stalker..."

"Mmm. Probably." He shrugs. "I guess you'll be here a while?"

"It's Friday night. It's comforting to be in the office on a Friday night. I'll be here forever."

"Why?" he asks, and she shrugs;

"I was a published author at nineteen. I'm back at Corpus doing a Masters in a subject most people have never heard of after just two months away. I can pick out the flaws in your Russian language from memory now, if you like -"

"No thanks!"

She laughs and continues "- and I'm learning Mandarin Chinese in my spare time. I'm not exactly the kind of girl who does anything else with her Friday nights."

"I'm doing a PhD in Arabic Literature." He counters. "And stalking one of my favourite authors. I win."

She pretends to weigh this up in her mind, and laughs. Her laugh tinkles; it's delicate, innocent, full of earnest joy. It's tiny, petite and beautiful; something else; just like she is. He cannot help but smile.

"I don't think so." She says. "I have to go."

"I'll be waiting, then."

"Then you really are a stalker, and I might have to call the police."

"Have a drink with me tonight."

"I can't." She tells him. "I don't know you, and I'm busy."

"Come on..." he smiles. He smiles _that_ smile. "I'm only around for a week. I bet you know a little Arabic. I could talk to you about your novel in that if my Russian sentence structures are lacking...?"

"Fine." She says, deliberately averting her gaze. "_Fine_."

"When shall I pick you up?" He asks, triumphant.

"Oh, you might as well just come in." She says. "It's not as though anyone else will be working this late on a Friday."

* * *

**A/N: reviews are like little individually wrapped Christmas presents, and they make me very very happy indeed. They'll also tell me whether or not you think this story is work pursuing? Ta xo A**


	2. Beginning to lose herself

**Two**

Harry feels slightly awkward as he follows Ruth up the rickety stairs of the little building to the office she refers to as the newsroom. The space is filled with mismatched wooden desks and chairs juxtaposing bizarrely with the state-of-the-art computers and plasma screens on the walls which seem to be tracking BBC news and Twitter trending topics. He glances around, and eventually decides to sit down on a brown leather sofa which sits in one corner apparently at random, and watches as Ruth stumbles past him and plonks her folders down on a side-table. He tries to guess which is her desk, and is surprised to find out that it is the most disorganised one: everything he knows about he suggested that she would be wonderfully organised. She is one of the most intelligent and dedicated people he has ever come across, and having worked at MI5 for almost five years now, he's met his fair share of ludicrously clever analysts. All of them had immaculate, if boring, desks and habits. Ruth, on the other hand, seems to thrive in clutter, and makes the biggest kerfuffle of turning on her computer that he could imagine.

"Do you need a hand?" he asks, smiling slightly. She looks bashfully across at him from under her eyelashes and shakes her head:

"I'm fine, really. I just can't remember the new password." She begins rooting in her handbag and eventually pulls out a small leather notebook, which she rifles through at high speed. "I know I wrote it down somewh – ah, got it!" Her grin is triumphant as she sits down, and smoothes her knee-length eyelet skirt across her lap. She begins clicking and typing, becoming completely absorbed in her work for a moment; Harry revels in watching her. The light of the nearly-set sun catches her hair from the window behind her and causes it to shine in such a way that it becomes hard for him to avert his gaze.

Eventually, she appears to notice that she is being watched, and drags herself from the computer screen. "I'm sorry," she says, "this is very rude of me!"

"Not at all. I accosted you in the street, remember?"

"Ah," she smiles, feigning thought, "so you did, yes..."

"So, do whatever you have to do, and then I'm buying you a drink and talking to you about your novel in the language of your choice."

"So many to choose from!" she grins, turning back to the computer. "I'll only be about half an hour; I just have one story and a couple of photos to place" she adds, and he almost feels genuinely glad, on a personal rather than professional level, that she is going to let him take her out.

"In that case, have you got a kettle?" he grins.

"Oh, of course." She points back through the door they came in. "There's a kitchen at the top of the stairs."

"Can I get you anything?" He asks, poking his head back round the door in _the _most endearing manner. For a moment, she almost thinks she feels butterflies, but she shakes her head as she sits back down and tells herself that she must have been imagining it.

* * *

"Why do you do that, then?" he asks her as she locks the building up on their way out. Pocketing the key, she smiles and shrugs.

"It looks good on my CV!" she tells him.

"You're doing an MSt in Classical Literature and Languages, Ruth." He laughs. "And you speak how many languages? And you were a published author at nineteen. You hardly need to make your CV look any better!"

"Actually," she says, smiling, "it's an MPhil, but that's not important." As he glances down, he cannot help but notice the endearing way that her cheeks are reddening as she says this. It's almost as though she's ashamed of, or embarrassed by, her achievements.

"What is it that you want to do with all of this, anyway?" he asks her, pulling his coat more tightly around him and shivering slightly. The cold November night is bitter, but the company is warm, and the little old-fashioned pub he has in mind is only two more minutes walk.

"I don't really know." She admits, bashful once again.

"Journalism?" he hazards, "with all your news editing experience?"

"Not at all." She tells him. "Not enough thinking involved. No, I... well. It's a bit embarrassing really." She concedes.

"Really?" he asks, holding the door for her as she follows him inside the pub. It's one of those pubs which looks like it's fallen through a worm-hole in time; everything is wooden, and the chairs have read leather tops. A fire roars in the grate, and people are actually talking to each other rather than on phones or laptops. There is no music; there is just good company and decent drinks. Ruth breathes a sigh of relief. This is her kind of watering hole. Harry smiles a little to himself. He thought she'd feel comfortable here, and he was right. Having done so much research about her, it's as though Ruth is a lifelong friend – and maybe something more – already.

"I'll tell you in a minute." She blushes, "but let me get you a drink first...?"

"No," Harry insists, pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, "I accosted you. I thought we'd agreed."

"Fine," she sighs, "a glass of red, please. I'll go find a table."

When Harry makes his way back from the bar, carrying a pint of bitter and a glass of red for Ruth, he finds that she has settled at a cosy little table beside the fire, and is anxiously picking at the sleeve of her top and her tights alternately. He passes her her glass, and, sitting down opposite her, says "go on, then. Tell me. What's this embarrassing ambition of yours?"

"No." She insists, staring at the table. "No, I can't tell you."

"Why not?" He asks, picking up his glass.

"You'll laugh."

"I promise I won't."

"I don't believe you."

"Fine." He says, putting the glass down. He places one of his hands (which she can't help but notice look very strong and sinewy) on top of hers and looks her firmly in the eye. On top of having very attractive hands, Harry also has very deep eyes. The kind which films might describe as "easy to lose oneself in". Ruth, as a classicist, a realist, and a strong, independent woman, has never set much store by what films might suggest about certain shades in a man's eyes, but she can't help agreeing a little with cliché at this moment. She is already beginning to lose herself. She can feel the heat in her cheeks, and she can tell that she is just moments away from beginning the nervous laughter she is prone to in situations involving herself and attractive members of the opposite sex.

Thankfully, she is saved by Harry's words, which are genuinely sincere and believable. He maintains eye contact, and squeezes her tiny hand slightly as he says "I promise, Ruth Evershed, that I won't laugh. Any ambition of yours will be worthy. I've only just met you, and I'm already blown away."

"Really?" she asks, taken aback slightly. She's not used to being in situations where there's a chance that her feelings might be reciprocated.

"Really." He tells her, and truly means it.

"Alright." She tells him. "I... I was kind of thinking of applying to work in the security services. You know. Analysing or translating." She laughs slightly; "I don't suppose I can, now that I've told you. It's probably supposed to be secret..."

"Yes," he says, laughing outwardly. Inwardly, he's reeling. He's more than blown away. Can she be serious? Could she honestly be any more perfect? Really?

He didn't think so. He didn't think so at all.

* * *

**Not sure about the ending of this chapter. Oh well. More tomorrow! Thanks for all your lovely reviews so far! :) xxxx**


	3. You do have a reputation

**A/N: thank you for your reviews! I know this is massively AU, but I thought it might be worth writing anyway. If you're interested, I'll keep writing. Also, any titbits about the 'real' Ruth and Harry (aka the ones we know from the show) are most welcome, in order to pad this out with a little recognisable background :) **

**Translations of other languages at the botton – double checked on Babelfish **_**and**_** Google Translate! Huzzah**

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**Three**

"Thank you for tonight." Harry says, as he and Ruth hover by the entrance to her building. It's cold, and they both know it's silly to be standing outside in this weather, but both are reluctant to say goodnight. "I had a really lovely time."

"I still think you're a stalker."

"A nice stalker?"

"A very nice stalker." Ruth agrees. "Вы правы, однако. Он нет часто что я могу поговорить к людям о моей книге в языке я думаю что он должно быть написано внутри."*

"Why d'you say that?" Harry asks.

"Cold war stories should be in Russian." Ruth shrugs. "That's why I learned Russian."

"Really?"

"Yes." She smiles; "it's stupid, isn't it? I had a passing interest in spy novels, and so I learned to speak Russian. I'm a bit different..."

"You, Miss Evershed, are something else," Harry says, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "Thank you for letting me take you out."

"Thank you for convincing me to come," Ruth smiles, feeling that blush rising in her cheeks again. "And if you ever need a Russian grammar lesson, you know where I am."

"I do. In fact, I might have to take you up on that." He grins, and strokes his hand down her arm gently, "in fact, I was wondering what you were doing tomorrow night?"

"Saturday?" Ruth asks, "what do you think?" She smiles sadly, and a little lopsidedly, and says "reading, probably. I don't know. Why?"

"Would you like to go out for dinner with me?"

"I... al... o...yes. Thank you." Ruth stutters. "That would be lovely."

"I'll meet you here at six?"

Ruth nods, mutely incapable of speech.

"Well, it was... enchanting. To meet you, I mean." Harry smiles, "and I shall look forward to tomorrow night."

Ruth nods, again, and is utterly stunned when Harry leans in and kisses her cheek lightly again, hovering for a second before turning and walking away into the deep Oxford night.

* * *

"Enchanting?" James asks, incredulously, "_enchanting_? Harry, what were you thinking?"

"That I was enchanted?" Harry shrugs. He's sitting in the back of the bar of his hotel with James, a trusted member of Section D entrusted with the task of making sure neither Harry nor Ruth do anything ridiculous. He'd thought it would be easy; all he had to do was sit in a van listening to the information coming through from the wire Harry was wearing and note down anything salient to send to Karin. They needed to make sure that Harry's assumptions were correct, and that Ruth would be suited to life in MI5. But, his assumptions – about having an easy week – were almost utterly rubbished by what he'd heard just before Harry left his target.

"You can't think like this, Harry." James says, firmly, "I'll have to tell Karin."

"So tell Karin."

"Harry..." James warns. Harry shrugs. "This is a mission like any other." James reminds him. "You have an objective. You're here to recruit this girl, not get into her knickers."

At this, Harry looks appalled: "you can't honestly think that's what I'm intending?" he asks.

"You do have something of a reputation, Harry." James reminds him. "Please, just get this girl on the team before you begin sexually harassing her."

"_Juliet kissed me!_" Harry shouts, thumping the table a little more powerfully than is strictly necessary. "And you know full well that none of that was my fault."

"A reputation is still a reputation."

"And a target is still a target." Harry fires back. "Besides which, Miss Evershed is far too fascinating and moral a woman to fall into bed with a complete stranger straight away."

"I don't know, Harry," James warns, "she seemed pretty... _enchanted_ too."

"Good." Harry smiles. "But I would never treat her like that. She is something else. She deserves something else." He pauses, then adds "and before you even _think_ about sexualising that, you know exactly what I mean."

"My god." James sighs. "The great Harry Pearce. In love. With a target he's only known a few hours."

"I've known about her for months." Harry counters. "I feel like I've known her forever."

"So you don't deny you're in love?" James jibes.

"No comment." Harry says, firmly plonking his whiskey glass down on the table. "And before you even _think_ about telling Karin about any of this..."

"I know, I know. You're still treating her as a target."

"Hmmm."

"Just... try to keep the fantasies clean, Harry? In case they come out, by accident. You have a reputation to, uh, break away from, remember?"

"Shut up."

* * *

The neon light on the screen of her alarm clock tells Ruth that it is now two am. She's been lying awake wondering ever since Harry left her at the door to her college, and she's tossed and turned for hours thinking about him. She can't get him out of her head. There's just something about him which is so intriguing and tantalising; his eyes are the obvious starting point, and then there are his hands, and his arms, and his smile, and his delicious voice, and how charming he was, and his evident intelligence and charm...

But beneath all of that, buried somewhere, there's something else; something Ruth can't quite put her finger on. He seems almost too perfect. The whole meeting seems almost too perfect.

Having read her novel, Harry picked Ruth Evershed (alias Anna Alkaeva**) out because of the detailed and analytical approach she'd taken. He'd then done his research about her; he could probably recite her CV almost as well as she could. He knew exactly how her brain worked. He should have guessed, then, that something within her was going to start questioning such an perfect "chance" meeting – however wonderstruck she might have been at the time.

* * *

*"_You are right, though. It is not often that I can talk to people about my book in the language I think it should be written in."_

_** This is a Russian name; Alkaev (the male form) means "to be wished". _

_Don't ask where the Russian link came in... it's a bit of a personal obsession! But I tried to think of why they might have highlighted Ruth, and as I was doing so I was reading a Cold War spy novel... and it just sort of clicked. Which is why it's so helpful that she speaks Russian. (James must have told Harry what to say... or else he google'd it before hand, when he spoke Russian...)_

_OK, OK, tenuous obsessive bit over!_

_

* * *

_

**Reviews are gold-dust, and updates will come as fast as they can! Promise x**


	4. Absolutely and utterly infatuated

**Four**

On Saturday, Harry and Ruth go out to dinner. On Sunday, Ruth takes Harry on a tour of Oxford (although the real Harry studied there only five years ago, and spends the whole day praying not to bump into anyone who'll recognise him). On Monday, they go to the theatre to see 'Oedipus at Colonus'. On Tuesday, Karin decides it's gone too far. She's read all of James' reports, and she's listened (secretly) to some of the tapes taken from Harry's wire. And, it's become clear to her that both Harry and Ruth are infatuated. Absolutely, and utterly.

She knows, too, though, that Ruth is on to Harry, to a degree. She can tell from what she's heard that Ruth skirts answers when Harry asks questions, and that she keeps prodding him about works of Arabic literature, which are steadily becoming more and more obscure. Karin knows that Ruth knows that there's something not quite right about 'Harry Davies', and from this fact alone, she knows that she needs Ruth on her team. This girl – and she is only a girl, still, at twenty-two – is brighter and more perceptive than any of the other First-Class-With-Honours-From-Oxbridge employees on the Grid. She might well be educated at the same establishment as the majority of them, but she's worlds apart.

So, with all this in mind, Karin tells Harry that he has to come clean. He has to explain everything. When he hears this from James (Karin delegates the messier tasks) he almost explodes. "I can't!" he insists, "I absolutely can't."

"Why not?"

"Because... because..." Harry digs around in the recesses of his mind and attempts to think of a reason. "Because..."

"Because she's _enchanting_?" James suggests.

"Touché", Harry concedes. "But even so, I won't do it."

"Harry," James warns him, "you have to do it. It was the whole purpose of this mission; recruiting Ruth Evershed."

"But -"

"But nothing." James tells his superior. "If you don't do it, Karin will. And if Karin does it, think how that will make you look when she turns up on the Grid for her first day of work..."

* * *

On a usual Tuesday evening, Ruth would probably be in the Cherwell offices until late into the evening. Tuesdays were like any other day, and her late-night dedication tended to extend to any time when the consumption of excessive amounts of alcohol would seem like a good idea to the people who lived around her. Tonight, like every other night, was one of those nights.

This Tuesday night, though, was different. Ruth was sitting in her room feeling optimistic and pessimistic all at once. The past few days had been amazing. Last night, she had seen 'Oedipus' for the sixth time, with a man whom she admitted openly to herself was a little bit too perfect, and who, last night, had kissed her goodnight properly when he dropped her home. She knows it's silly to be so excited about that, but she is. She's never been kissed before; not really. Not by someone who cares. Not properly. Not with feeling. Until last night.

And tonight, she's remembering it as she tries to decide what to wear. They've decided that they're just going to the pub again, because Harry says he's had a busy day, and that he's made a breakthrough with one of the texts that he's studying which he wants to tell her about. And, delightful and sweet and almost 'coupley' as that sounds, she's scared. She doesn't know how to deal with situations like this. She never has. She can feel herself clamming up already, at the very thought of putting on something dressy for the fourth night running.

Sighing, she pulls her favourite jumper from her wardrobe and decides he can be damned if he thinks she's getting any more dressed up. She puts on her favourite jeans and boots, slipping her grandmother's locket around her neck for luck, and then she begins waiting again. Sitting and staring do nothing for her composure, and she's about to begin pacing when her phone buzzes; a text message from Harry. One of the disadvantages of college living is that you can't answer your own door, but the message tells her that Harry's here. Pulling her coat on and wrapping her scarf around her, she shoulders her bag and heads out into the corridor.

* * *

"So," Ruth says, sitting down at the nearest table to the fire and taking a sip from her glass, "what's this you wanted to show me, then?"

"Actually," Harry says, nervous and completely aware of the wire he's wearing. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe he should have asked Karin to do it. Maybe... "I wanted to _tell_ you something," he says.

"Oh." Ruth's tone suggests that this is both expected and unexpected simultaneously. She really does have the brain of an analyst already, despite her lack of training.

"I... I really don't know how to start, though." He says. Ruth is watching him, eagle-eyed. His body language is clearly illustrative of his discomfort, and the way he keeps glancing from the table to her and back again tells her that he is nervous, too. She decides to prepare herself for the worst.

And then Harry's phone buzzes. As he pulls it from his pocket, she notices how fancy it is. It's one of those phones that can walk and talk for themselves, and it doesn't seem to quite fit with the Harry she thinks she's grown to know of the past few days.

"Sorry," he says, "I'll have to check this."

He scans the message quickly; it's James. _Just effing tell her,_ it says, _or Karin promises she'll be there in plenty of time to hire Ruth and fire you._

He smiles, wryly. "I really am going to have to just bite the bullet and tell you." He says, pointing to his phone. "Or my boss will do it for me."

"Your boss?" Ruth asks, scandalised, but in hushed tones. It's almost as though she knows already. Sort of.

"My boss." Harry confirms, talking slowly, firmly, and quietly. "Because I'm not Harry Davies, and I'm not a PhD student at King's. That was just a way in. My name is Harry Pearce, and I work for the British Security Services."

"You _what?_" Ruth asks, eyes widening, and clearly horrified.

"I work for the British Security Services, and we have highlighted you as someone we would like to recruit."

"How?"

"I read your novel – truly, I did – and then I made my boss read it. And then we did some research about you. And we all agreed that you're perfect analyst material."

"So, you really were stalking me, then?" Ruth asks, in a vague attempt and black humour. She's honestly not amused; she just doesn't know how else to react.

"You could say that." She makes no reaction to this, and so Harry continues. "I was intending on breaking this to you in a different way, but I've been told firmly to tell you now, and to give you this." He passes another phone across the table to her. "It'll allow you to telephone my boss, when you've had time to take this in, and it'll allow you to ask her questions."

"And so that's it?" Ruth asks.

"That's it."

"That's all I was to you? A target?"

"No, Ruth." Harry says, disbelieving. He'd never thought she'd think of it this way. "Not at all. Everything between us... that was real. I... I really do like you, Ruth. A lot. But... but my job doesn't make liking people easy."

She just stares at him. And keeps staring. And... keeps staring.

"I know this isn't what you expected, but Karin, my boss, would love to talk to you."

"_I told my mother that I'd met this really great guy and that I thought we had a shot at something special_." Ruth hisses. "My _mother_. But I suppose you don't know what that means to me."

"Actually," Harry says, "I do. I know everything about you, remember?"

"And I know _nothing_ about you."

"No, Ruth, you don't. But, I'd like you to. I really would. I do like you, Ruth. In _that_ way. A lot. And we might have a shot at something special."

"That's not going to help at graduation when my mother wants to meet my boyfriend."

"You're clever, Ruth. That's why we chose you. I'm sure you'll think of something." Harry tells her, before leaning over to kiss her on the cheek one last time.

And with that, he stands up, and leaves her.

* * *

**A/N: Ooooooh, drama drama! This chapter was so much fun to write! Sadly, it's my last update until after Christmas – but I really hope you'll stick with this. I don't know exactly where it's going next, but I think it's going to be a lot of fun... and the angst will come to an end in the not too distant future!**

**Merry Christmas, with love; Amy Littière xxx**


	5. The bubble has burst

**This chapter is for everyone who reviewed over Christmas but who I haven't replied to; I still love you, I promise :) I hope you like this – it's a little angsty, and mostly just in the name of shifting this fic forward a little, but hey ho. The fluff shall (inevitably) follow!**

**Sorry it's so short!**

**xo A**

* * *

**Five**

The phone seems to be staring at her. It's on her bedside table, and she's been lying there under its gaze for hours trying to work out why she couldn't quite find the resolve to throw it in the nearest bin. Somewhere deep within her, it's because she knows that Harry was telling the truth, and that he didn't do anything to deliberately hurt her. He'd set about to charm her, definitely; but only in so far as was necessary to get her attention. From there on in, it was an honest flirtation, a genuine attraction, something wonderful and indescribable.

The part of her that acknowledges this, however, is burying itself deeper and deeper with every passing moment, and outwardly, the most part of her detests the very thought of Harry Pearce, who has wandered into her comfortable little world and turned it upside down in less than a week. Despite what she told him about her true ambitions, that was never a real plan. The real plan was concocted long ago with her favourite Professor who saw her potential from the very start. She'd get her BA, and then her MPhil, and her doctorate. She'd take up a teaching position, and enjoy paid research time, and get to spend her life in the little old town she loved, translating and teaching and appreciating, peacefully, happily and quietly. She'd live out her obscurity in peace. She'd never be anything important, and she'd never be anything that remarkable, except for possibly being the best Professor of Classics that Corpus Christi ever had.

Her head's in a mess, tonight, though, and that mobile phone is still staring at her. The overwhelming part of her – which is battling hard to fight back forgiveness and a wave of what can only be described as utter love for Harry – wants nothing more than to pick up that phone, and press to call, and speak to Harry's boss. She knows it's rash and stupid and wreckless, and she knows it's wrong, but she wants a slice of the glamorous, crazy, seat-of-your-pants life she wrote for that character what seems like an eternity ago.

She knows that the life of a spy (which is what she assumes Harry's job title must be) can't be as she imagines it, and that it must sometimes be boring, or dangerous, or terrible, and yet she finds herself not caring, because the mobile phone is staring at her.

Eventually, her resolve cracks. Eventually, she picks up the phone and presses the button, and a smooth, sophisticated voice answers. The formidable Karin has been looking forward to this moment more than she can express.

* * *

"What do you mean you're dropping out of university?"

Ruth's mother's voice echoes down miles of phone lines and causes her daughter to physically shudder. Their relationship has been shaky for a while, but it seems like Ruth may have just handed the camel the last straw to break its back.

"I mean I'm... I don't know, Mum." Ruth sighs, leaning back into her temporary bed. She takes in the neutral surroundings of her hotel room, and sighs. It's too late to do anything about her mother's bruised feelings now; the reason she's here is that her mind is made up. She's moved out of Corpus Christi, and is in the process of looking for somewhere to live in London with another new recruit (Section B this time). She's signed a contract with Karin, undergone basic training, and successfully avoided Harry. She's continued to read her Classical literature, and always will, but her passion for studying has all but evaporated in the face of a new, and far more significant challenge, and she's truly happy with the decision she's made. The last thing she needs is her mother to get in the way. "I have a job. Civil Service. I'm living in London. I'm happy."

"You're someone else is what you are" her mother tells her. "And I'm not sure I like her, whoever she is."

"I'm still me, Mum," Ruth pleads, "I've just... I don't know. I've grown up. I've realised that there's more to life than Oxford. The bubble's burst."

"You're right," her mother says, "the bubble has burst. I'm certainly seeing you in a new light, Ruth Elizabeth Evershed. And unless you give me my daughter back, I don't think I can talk to you again."

"Mum..." Ruth pleads, her voice weak and her resolve weaker. The only answer she gets is the dialling tone.


	6. Like he's mesmerised

**A/N: Because the last chapter was horrible and a bit crap really. **

**You'll notice that all the Spooks are of a certain era... I only started watching in Series 6, and although I've seen them all now, the Series 6 onwards Spooks are the most familiar to me, so the easiest to manipulate. :)**

* * *

**Six**

And, there it is again. The moment she steps on to the Grid for the very first time, through the pods, lead by Karin, that swoop in her stomach returns as her eyes catch sight of Harry leaning over a computer and looking very, very attractive, his hair slightly ruffled and his top few shirt buttons undone. It's indecent, actually, assault like this, she decides. She's been trying so, so hard to keep him – the very idea of him – off her mind, and suddenly, here he is, making her feel like she hasn't felt since... well, since she last saw him. He raises his glance, hearing his boss' voice, and catches her eye by accident, smiling slightly when he sees her. She averts her gaze, not noticing the dejection written across his features at her distaste.

Ruth's first day is very busy; she's thrown right in at the deep end with a series of tasks in quick succession, and hardly has the chance to confront her feelings about Harry after that first instance. Everyone in the meeting room – Karin (the Head of Section D), Harry (the Section Chief), Malcolm (technician, old head on young-ish shoulders), Adam (field operative), Rosalind ("call-me-Ros", field operative, and generally very intimidating) and Joanna (a fairly new field operative) – watch in awe as Ruth stands in front of them all and presents a series of very complicated ideas very quickly, utterly bamboozling most of them.

What they notice – but she doesn't – is the way that Harry's eyes linger on her rather than the screen from which she is presenting. She's pretty, in a normal kind of way, but in Harry's eyes, she's more than beautiful. Her dark brown hair curls loosely around her shoulders, almost exactly the same shade as her eyes, and she wears a dark blouse and skirt with heeled boots. The only thing about her appearance which is especially noticeable is the bizarre necklace she wears, which looks like a charm necklace that got lost in the middle of a jumble sale and came out with a few extras. It's endearing, and a little bit mad, just like Ruth herself, and it catches Harry's eye particularly because of the way that it draws attention to her sweeping neck and collar bones.

By the end of her first day, Ruth's mind is buzzing. She's been so busy she's hardly noticed the passage of time, and although Ros makes her feel distinctly nervous, almost everyone else makes her feel completely at home. Within a day, she knows she's absolutely made the right decision. She knows, unequivocally, that she can be happy here, and that even if her mother will never talk to her again, it will be no great loss.

She's just putting her coat on and getting ready to go back to the poky little Shoreditch flat she shares when Joanna taps her lightly on the shoulder and asks if she's coming to "The George". She nods; assuming this is a pub, it could be a nice way to get to know her new colleagues. Seeing as she now has no blood relatives who'll talk to her, she needs to get to know other people, and these people are going to be a big part of her life in the coming years.

"Sure," she says, "that would be nice. Thank you."

They step through the pods one after the other, and as they walk out of Thames house and onto the South Bank, Joanna says "so what's the story with Harry and you?"

"What?" Ruth asks, immediately defensive.

"Oh," Joanna says, eyes widening, "I'm, uh, sorry... I didn't mean to upset you."

"No, um," Ruth hesitates. Joanna's only been with Section D a few weeks. She probably doesn't know what Harry did to recruit Ruth. And she seems nice. Really nice. Like a real friend. In the end, Ruth sighs, and says "he recruited me. He told me he was someone else, and..." she sighs, again, and concedes "and he kissed me."

"And then he turned out to be a spook who wanted to hire you and not a hot guy who was in love with you?"

"Basically, yes," Ruth smiles, rolling her eyes. "I thought I was above these kinds of feelings, but I guess I'm not."

"He likes you, you know."

"I do know." Ruth says. "He told me so. He said that we could have something special. And then he left me a phone to call Karin and walked off."

"Nice guy!" Joanna laughs, and Ruth nods. The conversation moves on, but as they get to the bar and are buying their drinks, Ruth feels Harry's eyes on her, and turns to Joanna, her thoughts moving back to a previous remark.

"How did you know that he likes me?" she asks, staring at the bar rather than her colleague. Joanna, for her part, just shrugs:

"It's the way he looks at you." She says, "it's like... it's like he's mesmerised, or something. It's like when his eyes are on you, no one else exists."

"Wow." Ruth sighs. "How odd."

"You're not going to forgive him for lying to you, are you?" she asks. Ruth shakes her head.

"I can't, Joanna," she sighs, leaning into the bar. "I... my hopes... I'd never felt like that before. It was like he trod on my heart."

"But you don't know what you're missing out on."

"I... I don't know..."

"I do."

They both jump: the last voice they had expected to hear behind them causes Ruth to choke on her wine, and Joanna to nearly scream. Harry's gaze, however, is only for Ruth. He waits until she's regained her composure before he says to her, firmly, "I am sorry, you know, Ruth."

"Hmmm."

"And I know that I was very corny with all the 'something special' lines, and that I was very cruel to treat you the way I did."

"Hmm."

"But I think that we should put all that behind us."

"Really?"

"Yes." Harry says, firmly. Joanna subtly sidles away. "I think," Harry continues, "that we should start all over again. And that an analyst as good as you should be very good friends with her Section Chief."

"Really?" Ruth asks, looking sceptical. Harry nods, picks up her drink, and carries it away towards the table where the others are sitting.

* * *

**A/N: Whoa, what happened there? Harry started writing himself! That wasn't the plan!**

**Oh well. Too late. More soon xx**


	7. Once bitten, twice shy

**Seven**

Inevitably, time passes. Two years on, and Ruth is almost unrecognisable, in many ways. Things change in two years; she's a different person. She lives in a little house not far from her first Shoreditch flat, with a cat called Fidget. She still wears the same sorts of clothes and says the same sorts of things, and makes connections that no one else would be able to. She's still indispensable as an analyst. She's still brilliant, but she's happier. She's changed, inside.

She smiles, when she would previously shrug. She laughs, and socialises, and smiles some more. She's well liked by her colleagues. She no longer misses her family; she has a new family, on the Grid. Karin is like the mother she never had, and Joanna is the sister she always dreamed of. Malcolm is everyone's favourite Uncle. There are two new team members – Zaf, the cheeky cousin, and Ben, both of whom have the hots for Joanna. Ros has moved on, but still says a vague "hello" if you pass her on the street, like a long-lost sibling, and Adam... well. Adam died in an explosion at the start of Ruth's second year on the Grid, and is well missed. The one everyone mourns; the best friend everyone misses beyond belief. The real tragedy of it was his baby son and young wife – but Fiona stays in touch, and Ruth has occasionally babysat for her, allowing her the time to come to terms with her loss and make a decision about what to do with the rest of her life alone.

Harry, then; well. Harry is like the hot guy you were friends with in school but always secretly fancied. He's clever, sharp, friendly, and always there she needs him, but he still makes her stomach loop and her heart flip. She's past the point, now, when she shies away from him; they're good friends, and everyone else can see that they are both absolutely in love with each other. The way they are with each other is almost like a dance, and the way they talk to each other just oozes chaste flirtation.

In a way, Harry's always been uneasy around her, since she exploded at him in the pub that afternoon what feels like a lifetime ago. He never really lets go; he's never really been alone with her, except in work-based circumstances, since.

And so, for two long years, they've gone on pretending like they're just friends. This particular afternoon, in late December, Harry is leaning over Ruth's shoulder, asking her questions as she flicks through data and analyses. They look so much like a couple that Joanna doesn't quite know how to hold in her excitement. She watches, enraptured, as Ruth points at something, and Harry laughs, and then how she turns her head slightly to smile at him and they both hold eye contact for a second too long. Ruth smiles sadly as she turns back to the computer, and almost jumps out of her skin when Harry leans in to whisper something in her ear.

Joanna crosses absently to Malcolm, at his computer, and asks, sadly, "how do those two not realise that they're in love?"

"They do." Malcolm says, flatly, as he glances up. He smiles as he does so, and straightens his tie a little in a way that reminds Joanna of her Granddad. She laughs to herself at this; Malcolm can't yet be forty.

"They do?" she asks.

"Yes." Malcolm sighs, turning to look at her. "They're so in love with each other that they don't know how to deal with it."

"What?"

"They both feel it in themselves," he begins, slowly, before Joanna cuts him off:

"But neither of them sees that the other one feels it too."

"Exactly." Malcolm smiles, "besides, they're both the true embodiments of 'once bitten, twice shy'."

"Both?" Joanna asks, floating away. She can understand how her friend might be nervous around Harry, and around men, but she can't see any reason for Harry to be nervous around her. Shrugging it off, she wanders back to her computer, and carries on typing.

* * *

That night, after work, Section D heads to the pub. It's become something of a Friday night ritual, because the Grid runs on half-staff at the weekends, unless there is a particular threat perceived to national security. As it's the week before Christmas, conversation quickly turns to plans for the festive period: "I'm not looking forward to it," Joanna admits, "much as I miss my family, they'll want to know about work..."

"_Oh, yes, my boring desk job with the civil service is great fun_", Zaf mocks, and Joanna smiles.

"Pretty much, yes." She concedes. "It must be lovely to be able to do what you want at Christmas, Ruth."

Ruth widens her eyes dramatically, and flushes fuchsia. She'd deliberately kept out of this particular conversation, and had no particular desire to let all of her colleagues – most of whom had welcoming families to go back to – that she was going to be all alone for the second Christmas running.

"Mmm." She sighs, and smiles sadly. "The cat'll keep me entertained."

"Oh, Ruth..." Karin sighs, "I'm so sorry about your mother."

"It's not your fault." Ruth insists, pouring herself another glass from the bottle of wine she and Joanna are sharing, "and I don't mind, really. Last year wasn't so bad." She drains her glass quickly, and glances at her watch. Sighing, she pulls her coat tightly around her and mumbles something about getting the last bus before she leaves. Joanna feels terrible; Karin watches sadly. After a few moments, though, it is Harry who acts. He gets to his feet quickly, pulling his jacket on, and runs out of the door, telling the others vaguely that he'll be back soon.

He catches up with her easily; she's tiny compared to him, and so her pace is shorter. Walking dejectedly means she's not going anywhere fast, which, this time, is a relief. He falls into step beside her, and after a moment, she glances up and smiles.

"You're the pity brigade, then?" she sighs, staring at the floor.

"No." He insists. "I'm the ghost of Christmas future."

"Oh?" She can't help her reaction; she is genuinely intrigued.

"Mmm." He nods, catching her arm to steady her on the icy pavements. London is freezing this Christmas, and he supposes that the slight heel on her boots can't be making walking all that easy. "Listen, Ruth, I'm not doing this out of pity, I promise."

"Doing what?"

"I was only going to have a quiet Christmas myself this year, so... well, I was wondering if you'd like to join me? Bring the cat; he can keep my dog entertained."

"She," Ruth corrects instinctively, before blinking slightly and glancing up at him. "You really are the pity brigade then..."

"No." He insists, "I would really like it if you came. It would be a lot less... dull. I'd like the company." He notices her lack of response, and waits a moment, before adding "the others didn't tell me to ask you, if that's what you're thinking..."

"Promise?" Ruth asks. She stops dead, and turns to look up at him, making sure that she can see his eyes. She can usually read lies in people's eyes, but she has to admit that Harry Pearce is something of an exception... the only exception, really, but still.

"I promise, Ruth," he smiles. "And I have a spare room, if you don't feel like trekking back across London in the cold afterwards."

She nods, quietly. "Thank you for asking me, Harry," she says. "It's very kind."

"You're not coming, are you?" The dejection in his tone is what changes her mind. He really does want her to be there, with him, at Christmas.

"No," she says, smiling, "I am coming. If... if that's OK?"

"Of course it's OK, Ruth!" He smiles, "I'll... I'll sort out the details with you tomorrow, OK?"

"OK..."

"You don't have to sound so uncertain." He laughs, and she smiles the most adorable smile he has ever seen. Unable to hold back, he pulls her into a hug and says "merry Christmas, Ruth," into her hair.

* * *

**A/N: A review would be very nice, pretty please? Thank you xxx**


	8. Christmas chocolate for breakfast

**A/N: This chapter is for PhillipaRM and Lady J for being so supportive and leaving the kindest reviews I have ever read. Much love due t'ya x :)**

* * *

**Eight**

On Christmas Eve, by some lucky coincidence, Ruth and Harry end up leaving the Grid together. London is bitterly cold, and the evening is a black blanket around them. They walk in companionable silence out onto the riverside, and as Ruth is about to smile and walk off towards her bus stop, Harry puts his arm out, and catches hers. He looks deeply at her for a moment; so much so that she can't help but ask "what?"

"Nothing," he says after a moment. He seems to be sighing as he leans in to the wall and stares out across the river. "You'll find out soon enough..." he mutters under his breath. She doesn't catch it, and squints at him, as though to tell him so. He shrugs. "See you tomorrow..."

"Yes." Ruth smiles, now; a real, earnest, I'm-looking-forward-to-it smile. "What time do you want me?"

"Any time you like." He says, smiling in return. "I'll be up from about five, I guess..."

Ruth chooses not to question this; much as it is making her wonder, she realises that she has no right to pry, and she is so glad that she doesn't have to spend Christmas day alone that Harry's odd quirks can easily be overlooked.

"How about I say ten?" she asks, and he nods:

"I'll look forward to it."

* * *

When Ruth wakes on Christmas morning, she feels strangely optimistic. Her twenty-fourth Christmas is looking like it might be the best one yet. She's long since lost the childish happiness and excitement which surrounds the day for many, but at twenty-four years old, she feels very lucky. She has a job she loves, friends she loves, a home she loves, a cat she loves, and she is going to spend Christmas with Harry.

She wakes early; it is only just gone seven o'clock, and she is sorely tempted to ring Harry to see if he's been up for two hours, like he predicted. She manages to resist, however, and potters down to her kitchen in her slippers to make herself a cup of tea and some toast. She turns on the radio as she waits for the kettle to boil, and is greeted by the sounds of every terrible eighties Christmas song ever written. Usually, this would make her groan and grimace, but today, it makes her smile. She has to stop herself from dancing round the room in her pyjamas, and catches sight of herself in the window; the grin on her face is ridiculous. She can't remember the last time she felt so optimistic, and she can't quite work out why she does now.

After breakfast, she showers and dresses, spending a long time choosing her outfit. She eventually settles on a snugly navy jumper dress and black tights; wintry, warm and, she hoped, pretty, too. She lets her hair dry and curl loosely to frame her face, and as she pads down the stairs and slips on her favourite black suede boots she appraises herself in the mirror. She looks nervous and comfortable at the same time, which she supposes is the best that she can hope for.

She pulls her coat tightly around her, and pulls her keys out of her handbag. As she leaves her house, she feels ridiculously weighed down; she has her handbag on one shoulder, a bag of food donations and presents in her left hand, and a holdall in her right hand which has fresh clothes, pyjamas and toiletries in. However awkward she had initially felt about the idea of staying in Harry's spare room for the night, she has to admit to herself that crossing London on Christmas night alone is ridiculous; she's walking this morning, because TFL isn't running, and she likes the feel of her feet crunching across fresh frost. Harry only lives about two miles away, but at night it would be insanity.

* * *

This is the first time that she has ever been to Harry's house, and she checks the address on the note he wrote her three times before she dares to ring the bell. She's freezing cold, cheerful, and nervous, but certain that she's at the right address. Harry's car sits on the roadside, and the door is painted a deep, exhilarating shade of red. She doesn't know a lot about Harry's background, but she knows that his family has history in the armed forces and the Secret Services, too; he comes from rich stock, and so that fact that the house is so far outside what he should be able to afford on his salary doesn't shock her.

What does shock her, however, is the fact that it's not Harry who opens the door. It's a blonde. A blonde who, by the looks of it, is about seven years old. Her smile is bright and her pyjamas are filthy; she's clearly attacked Christmas chocolate for breakfast, and a large amount of it appears not to have made it to her mouth. She looks up at Ruth through big, brown eyes and says "happy Christmas" with a slight lisp. Ruth is about to turn away, apologising for interrupting the little girl's Christmas, when she hears Harry's voice calling out through the house: "Catherine! Get dressed, please! Ruth will be here soon!"

Ruth's eyes widen, and she looks down at the little girl, asking "can I come in, please?"

"Yes." The girl smiles, and opens the door fully, skipping off into the house leaving a bewildered Ruth in her place.

"I, uh, I'm already here, Harry," Ruth calls, and she could swear she hears him cursing under his breath before he appears in the hallway. He smiles at her, his eyes as wide as hers, as he takes in her laden-down appearance.

"So you are." He states, and she nods. The tension is tangible; but eventually, Harry crosses the space between them and kisses her briefly on the cheek, whispering "Merry Christmas". Ruth smiles, and returns the greeting, before asking where she should put her stuff. She's still utterly confused about who on Earth the little girl could be, but she decides to overlook this for a moment.

"Oh, uh, just leave it here for now," he says, "can I take your coat?"

She nods, nervously, and passes it across to him. Neither of them has broken eye contact since Harry appeared, and it takes a child's sneeze to bring them back to reality.

Harry's head turns abruptly towards the kitchen, down the hallway, and he smiles awkwardly at Ruth. "I'm sorry about this," he says, "I did try to warn you..."

"Warn me?" she asks, completely unawares.

"I wanted to tell you that... well." He pauses for a moment, and then shouts "Catherine! Graham! Bottom of the stairs NOW!"

There is an elephantine clatter of feet, and suddenly the little blonde girl and a brown-haired boy about two years younger are smiling up at Ruth from either side of Harry.

"Cath, Graham, this is my friend Ruth." Harry says, his eyes firmly on Ruth's again. "Ruth, these are my children, Catherine and Graham."

Ruth blinks at them; they blink at Ruth. Eventually, she says "hello", and they smile, bashfully, back up at her, before being directed straight back up the stairs to get dressed.

* * *

**A/N: Unexpected? Please say that was unexpected! I tried so hard to make it unexpected :)**


	9. So intensely intimate

**A/N: Speedy update to aid Lady J's speedy recovery. Nice and fluffy :)**

* * *

**Nine**

Having shepherded his children upstairs, Harry shepherds a very shocked looking Ruth through to his kitchen and makes her a restorative cup of tea. The kitchen is beautifully modern and bears few signifiers of the children, who have never been mentioned in the two years Ruth has known Harry. There are a few pictures on the fridge, and presumably hand-made paper chains hang across the room. The table is messy, and three breakfast places are set. Apart from that, it's almost as though they don't exist.

"I am sorry for the, uh, surprise, Ruth..." Harry sighs, leaning back against the counter as he waits for the kettle to boil. "I was going to mention it last night but..."

"You'll find out soon enough," Ruth quotes, and Harry smiles:

"Is that what I said? Well. Yes, you did find out, didn't you?"

Ruth smiles in response, taking the cup he offers her, and helping herself to milk from a carton left on the table. She sips her drink in silence for a moment before voicing the question she's wanted to for the last five minutes: "why have you never mentioned them before?" she asks, glancing up at him across the kitchen from under her eyelashes. He looks especially handsome as he shrugs, but she supposes that it could just be the glow of the sun shining on him through the window as it finishes its ascent across the Christmas sky.

"Because it hurts." Harry says. "Their mother... she..." he breathes in deeply, and presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose, clearly in deep emotional pain. "She's unpredictable. I only knew yesterday afternoon that they'd be with us today. I really thought it would just be you and me, Ruth. I really _wanted_ it just to be you and me."

"What happened?" Ruth asks.

"It's a long story." He tells her. "Later."

"Later." Ruth agrees, placing her cup down on the table and crossing to him. She studies his face, seeing so many emotions flicker across it in seconds flat, and reaches out to lay a hand on his cheek. "Don't worry." She tells him. "I don't mind. At all." Her hand tingles as it lies on his cheek, and his eyes slide sideways to look at it. After a moment, the loopy feeling in her stomach means that she has to pull it away, and, still smiling, she says "it's nice, you know. Being let in to your _real_ world. And at Christmas, too!"

Harry raises his eyebrows, and, after a moment, he pulls her into a comfortable hug, leaning his head on top of hers.

They're both glad that they've made it this far; they've moved on from the tension and the bitterness and the awkwardness. They're completely comfortable with each other, and neither of them ever wants to let the other go, in this moment.

But, with small children around, that would never be possible. Minutes later, the clatter of feet comes thudding down the stairs into the kitchen and Catherine and Graham announce that "it's Christmas, Daddy! PRESENTS!"

Smiling awkwardly over his shoulder at Ruth, Harry allows his children to drag him through the kitchen to the living room. It, too, is too modern for the house, but here the signs of the children are all around, in half-empty stockings and cartoon wrapping paper and DVDs, and in the photos on the mantelpiece and the mess, all around. Harry smiles apologetically as he notices Ruth appraising the mess. She shrugs passively; she's seen worse.

Beneath the Christmas tree, presents are piled high, and a small blonde dog is chewing on something it shouldn't be. Catherine runs towards it, and points her finger, playing the angry mother. "Bad girl, Scarlet!" she says, "that's Daddy's present!"

"Don't worry, Cathy!" Harry laughs, letting Graham drag him to the ground. He plonks himself on the floor, leaning back against a dark brown, stylish leather sofa. Ruth watches, standing in the doorway; she feels as though she's interrupting their day and their lives. A family like this seems so intensely intimate, and almost dreamlike. It's a life Ruth never imagined anyone could have, really, let alone Harry. He notices her watching, and sees the way that his children seem to be staring at him imploringly. They're waiting for her. He shakes his head for a second, wondering where the hell they learned such impeccable manners: it certainly couldn't have been from their mother or stepfather, that was for sure. He catches Ruth's eye and nods his head toward them. She smiles, but stays where she is. He waits another moment, before patting a place for her beside him.

"I left my presents in the hall" she says, nervously.

"No you didn't," Harry says. The statement it laden with implication, so she sits down beside him, leaning back against the sofa, too, and waits for the meaning to sink in. Her brain is a little addled.

"Can we start, Daddy?" Graham asks.

Harry feigns thought for a moment, before nodding: they scramble to the tree and begin pulling presents out and tossing them around in search of their own.

"You've trained them well," Ruth comments, in hushed tones, so that Catherine and Graham can't hear. Harry nods:

"I'm not sure how much of that's me," he shrugs, "but I can't think who else it could be, so..." He leaves that thought hanging, and adds "I took the liberty of buying them presents on your behalf... I knew you'd feel bad."

"I do." She sighs, and smiles. "Thank you. But you must at least let me go put yours under the tree..."

"I think I can let you do that," he smiles, and watches a little too intently as she stands and leaves the room.

As she walks out, she hears a small voice shout "where did Wooth go?"

"_Ru_th went to get something else for under the tree", Harry says, as she reappears, and places three packages beneath the tree. At that precise moment, a small blonde missile attaches itself to Ruth's leg, and hugs her tight: "thank you, Ruth," Catherine smiles, "it's so pretty!"

Ruth almost asks "what is?" before she realises that 'it' must be her Christmas present for the little girl – and, on closer inspection, it appears that she's 'bought' Catherine a tiny little baby-blue jewellery box with sequins and a tiny silver padlock.

"That's alright," Ruth smiles, pulling Catherine up into her arms and placing a impulsively placing a kiss on the end of her nose, "happy Christmas."

Anyone watching would have seen them as the perfect happy family; in Harry and Ruth's minds, the idea was playing out quite interestingly, too. They leant back against the sofa and watched as Catherine and Graham tired themselves out chasing after Scarlet and a ream of wrapping paper. After an hour or so, Catherine suddenly remembers that neither Ruth nor Harry have opened each other's presents, and thrusts packages labelled with their names towards them. Harry loves how comfortable she already is with Ruth's presence, and smiles at how bashful Ruth appears when given gifts.

Under the watchful eyes of his offspring, Harry is forced to open his presents first: nondescript, customary gifts from his mother and father, DVDs from 'Secret Santa' on Grid, who must surely be Zaf, and a new framed photo of Catherine and Graham which must have been from his mother, despite their names on the label; his ex-wife would certainly not have been so thoughtful.

Finally, he arrives at Ruth's three packages, and unwraps them slowly. The first one is a copy of 'Anna Alkaeva's' novel, in Russian. He struggles not to laugh at this, once he's slowly translated the title and author's name. When Graham demands to know what it is, Harry catches Ruth's eye, and says "it's forgiveness, I think." His son looks confused, and Catherine looks equally so, but Ruth nods: it's a peace offering, and a reminder of what they had. It's her saying she forgives him.

The second package is a "teach yourself Arabic" DVD, which causes Harry to roll his eyes and tell Ruth that she's no longer welcome at dinner. She sticks her tongue out at him and holds his daughter – who insists, loudly, that _Ruth _is allowed for Christmas dinner – close.

The third is a malt Irish whiskey, with a handwritten label, predictably in a medley of other languages, which he decides to investigate later.

Smiling, Harry leans over to kiss her lightly on the cheek. "Thank you, Ruth. At least one of those presents will be appreciated..."

"I'll be testing you on the Arabic, you know. You have a PhD to write."

"So I do..." he nods, standing up and crossing to the Christmas tree. He picks up a small square present and passes it across to Ruth, saying "just one, and not ironic, I'm afraid..."

"Mine weren't ironic!" Ruth laughs, taking the present from him and, under Catherine's watchful eye, peeling off the paper. Inside is a small box of the kind that usually holds jewellery: she lifts of the lid, and her intake of breath tells Harry that it is exactly right. She pulls a delicate silver charm bracelet from the box, and looks at it closely. There is just one charm on it so far: a tiny silver union jack. "To remind you of why we do this," Harry has written on a note, sitting under the bracelet.

"Oh, Harry..." she sighs, putting the box carefully down on the floor and throwing her arms around his neck. "It's beautiful. Thank you." As she pulls back, she catches his eye, and is perilously close to kissing him. But, she remembers how she's only just fully forgiven him, and how happy she is, and how his children are watching, and somehow, mercifully, she manages to let her arms drop before temptation gets the better of her.

* * *

**A/N: Four updates in two days has to be worth a review, right...? I really hope you like this, and I'd love to know your thoughts! :) Sorry the Christmassyness is late! xxx**


	10. A thousand different futures

**A/N: Hilariously ironic dedication at the end to avoid spoileriness. Thank you for waiting and for all your reviews. I love you more than you'll ever know for supporting this story!**

* * *

**Ten**

Christmas day passes in a blur of food and happiness and photographs and laughter, and before anyone really knows where the day has gone to, 'Doctor Who' has finished, and Catherine and Graham are practically falling asleep on the sofa, wedged between Harry and Ruth. Feeling the children's breathing get heavier, Harry turns to Catherine, who is cuddled up beside Ruth, and says "bed time, Cathy?". His daughter sleepily attempts to protest, but Ruth takes her hand, and, smiling at Harry, pulls her to her feet.

"Why don't you shoe me your room, Catherine?" Ruth asks, "I bet it's lovely."

"Pink," Catherine says, her monosyllabic reply a clear indication of her true tiredness.

"It sounds beautiful. Come on." Ruth allows the sleepy little girl to lead her up the stairs and into a bedroom which looks like it ought to belong to a Princess; Harry's little Princess, she guesses. As she asks Catherine about her things, Ruth sees him carrying his sleeping son past Catherine's door and across the landing. She catches his eye, and smiles.

Feeling a little sleepy herself, although it is only seven o'clock, Ruth helps Catherine into her pyjamas and follows her through to the bathroom, listening as she chatters about her strawberry flavoured toothpaste. Catherine pushes the door open gently, and the sight that greets them causes a fresh cloud of butterflies erupts in her stomach: Harry is sitting on the edge of the bath, with a now awake Graham in his lap, coaxing his son through the evidently difficult process of cleaning his teeth. Until today, the image of Harry as a father had never (well, rarely, at any rate) crossed her mind. The picture before her eyes now is almost enough to change her whole world-view completely: if the fearless, fierce and honestly amazing Harry Pearce can fill these boots, she's clearly been seeing things wrongly for a while.

"Daddy!" Catherine squeals, launching herself at the sink and the strawberry toothpaste with a little too much ferocity. Ruth raises her eyebrows and slowly sinks down onto the edge of the bath, beside Harry. "I don't think she needs any help, after all..." Ruth breathes, watching Catherine run around. This moment is something she could never have imagined. She feels like part of this family; of this world. She can, in her mind's eye, see herself living this life, with Harry, and for a moment, it scares her. Catherine hugs her in the same way as she hugged her father before she skips, sleepily, off to bed, and for a second, Ruth believes it's real: this is her life.

The moment passes, though, as she shuts Catherine's door and remembers that she's only here for one day.

Almost sadly, she pads back down the stairs and into the living room, where she stands for a minute, glancing around and feeling almost lost. In one day, her way of seeing things has changed so dramatically, and a thousand different futures seem ready to present themselves – and yet she's still not comfortable enough in this house to sit down on the sofa uninvited.

Harry appears behind her in the doorway a minute later and pulls Ruth from her reverie. She glances round at him, startled, and smiles slightly: "sorry," she whispers, "I was in a world of my own."

"Was it nice?" Harry asks, passing her to collect a number of empty cups a coffee table.

"Perfect," Ruth smiles, serenely, "bizarre, but perfect."

"Christmassy?"

"Mmm." She intones, following him through to the kitchen. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, no," Harry insists, "I can cope."

"I know you can cope," Ruth smiles, "I don't doubt for a minute that you can cope. I just want to help, too."

"Really, Ruth!" Harry laughs, "I enjoy it."

"What, washing up?"

"Yes." He replies, earnestly. "Washing up keeps me human. My children keep me human..." He almost adds _you keep me human_, but he thinks that might be a step too far.

"They're wonderful, Harry. They really are."

"They like you."

She smiles at this, hitching herself up so that she's sitting on the sideboard beside the sink, watching him: "I like them," she tells him. She pauses for a moment, and he stops washing, watching the thoughts creeping across her face. Eventually, she says "tell me about them."

"It's a long story, Ruth." Harry warns, not entirely reluctant.

"I want to know, Harry. You know everything about me. I want to know you – the real you."

"Really?" he asks, with a lopsided, half-smile.

"Yes." She says, "I really do. I've had a wonderful day today, Harry, and I can't thank you enough... but tell me a story. Tell me your story."

"Alright," he says. "I'll wash and tell the story; you dry and listen."

Ruth hops of the counter and crosses round Harry, pulling the tea-towel off his shoulder as she does so. She sticks her tongue out at him, laughing as he rolls his eyes, and the story begins:

"I met my ex-wife, Jane, when we were both young and so naive. We were first years in the same college at Oxford, and... well." He smiles, ruefully, "you can imagine what happened. It was a bit of a whirlwind – my first real experience of love, and hers, too. Apparently, though, I didn't pay much attention in biology... we had Catherine pretty sharpish, and so I did the noble thing, and proposed. Jane dropped out of her degree to have Cathy, and I don't think she ever really forgave me. But then she got pregnant with Graham, and it was all alright again... except that I'd graduated and decided to follow my Dad into the army. I was deployed to Afghanistan, and I suppose that's when The Affair started, although I'm not really sure... I only found out when I was seconded into Section D as a junior field officer (this must have been three years ago). There was this woman in Section F, Juliet Shaw (the Wicked Witch of the West – you've not met her yet? Lucky you!) who apparently had the hots for me... well. She kissed me on the steps one day, and Jane was passing and suddenly it all came flooding out. Of course, it was my fault, for being 'with' Juliet, and for getting Jane pregnant, and for going to Afghanistan, and..."

He pauses for a moment, feeling Ruth's eyes on him. She's staring, wide-eyed, and he supposes that he can't blame her. It is a complicated tale.

"Well." He says, "it was all over pretty quickly, then... Jane fought hard for custody, and it seemed selfish of me to argue. You can never have a stable home life in the Service."

"Washing up." Ruth comments, seemingly absently, but Harry understands entirely.

"Washing up." He echoes. "Anyway, Jane has a habit of forgetting to mention when she wants me to look after the children, so that's why I only just found out that I was getting Christmas with them..."

"You should have told me, if you didn't want me to come..." Ruth whispers, staring sadly down at the washing up.

Harry wipes his hands on a towel and reaches out to cup one of her cheeks in his hand, stroking his thumb across the blush rising in it: "I did want you here, Ruth." He says, "I _do_ want you here. I wanted you to meet Cathy and Graham. I wanted you to know my story. I wanted you to forgive me, and I wanted you to trust me again."

"I do, Harry," she tells him, "I do."

* * *

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Camillo, for the most brilliant comment ever, "****Woot! A Harry who has't been through a divorce or made a fool of himself over Juliet.****" How I giggled ;)**

**Sorry for the delay – Happy New Year, and pretty please review? Love xx**


	11. Didn't sleep with Harry

**Eleven**

It doesn't go unnoticed that Harry and Ruth turn up for work together, a little late, on Boxing Day morning. Having dropped Catherine and Graham off at their maternal grandmother's house, Harry drove them in to work and they walk through the pods almost simultaneously, smiling and talking. They look brighter and more rested than they have in a long time, and it goes without saying that the answer to Karin's question ("Good Christmas?") is "yes".

"I'm glad," Karin smiles, before calling everyone in for morning briefing. Ruth drops her handbag at her desk, and as they walk in to the meeting room, Harry holds her chair out for her. She smiles up at him as she sits down, and he nods: everyone is watching, but they are oblivious. If the way they were together before Christmas was like some strange courtship dance, the way they are now is the same, but heightened tenfold. The sexual tension between them is palpable – and yet they are both evidently perfectly comfortable in each other's presence, facts which seem to contradict each other almost entirely.

How much anyone notices in the briefing is questionable. Karin seems to be talking, but no one really listens. They're watching Harry and Ruth's every movement. The shift of a finger by a fraction of a millimetre causes Joanna to sit up a little, and Harry's cough causes everyone to turn around abruptly. In fact, it is a remarkably good job that nothing of any interest is mentioned: had it been, there is a good chance that the burgeoning relationship between the analyst and the field officer would have brought down the country.

* * *

"So..." Joanna begins, voice laden with suggestion, cornering Ruth in the alcove used to make coffee later that day.

"So?" Ruth asks, genuinely oblivious.

"So what happened yesterday?" Jo asks.

"Christmas." Ruth says, flatly, before catching Jo's eye and laughing. "Is that why everyone's been acting so oddly today?" she asks, "because you all think I slept with Harry last night?"

"So... you didn't sleep with Harry last night?" Jo asks, gently skirting round the question and getting to the real information beneath.

"No!" Ruth laughs, a hint of incredulity in her tone.

"Then..."

"Then why did we come in to work together?"

"Yes."

"Because," Ruth says, fishing the tea bags out of the mugs in front of her, "I fell asleep on his sofa at about nine o'clock last night and he was too polite to ask me to bugger off."

"Oh." Jo says, her tone distinctly coloured by disappointment.

"Well," Ruth corrects, crossing to the little fridge in search of milk, "it would technically be more accurate to say that I fell asleep on _him_ last night, but still."

"WHAT?" Jo screams, causing Ben and Zaf to come careering round the corner to check that they are both still alive. Jo stares at them witheringly and they slink away; she turns back to Ruth and says "we have time. Nothing's happening today. Tell me."

"It's not very interesting, really," Ruth insists. "Just... well." She pauses for a moment, trying very hard to formulate a version of the story that doesn't involve the sentence "we'd just put his children to bed and done the washing up": it's not her place to tell Jo about Harry's private life, and so she has to be careful. "Well," she says, eventually, "I don't know. We were on the sofa, watching the TV, and it was cold, so I guess we were sitting quite close together. And we must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember is waking up with my head on Harry's shoulder."

"When?" Jo demands.

"About six o'clock this morning." _When Catherine came running down the stairs and pulled the blanket off us_, she adds, mentally.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Is that all?"

"What does that mean?" Ruth laughs, sipping her tea.

"Did you _just_ fall asleep on his shoulder?"

"Yes."

"There is nothing more interesting to tell?"

"There is nothing more interesting to tell." Ruth confirms, and Jo swears: "What was that for?" Ruth laughs.

"We'll just have to try harder" Jo says, as she walks away, leaving Ruth utterly confused in her wake.

"What?" Ruth asks, chasing her as quickly as she can with two full mugs of tea in her hand. As she walks back out onto the grid, she places one firmly down on Harry's desk, smiling as she does so, and downs hers, shoving her mug down next to it. Then, far faster than is technically necessary, she throws herself across the Grid after Jo.

* * *

The afternoon, Ruth has the pleasure of meeting the Wicked Witch of the West. Juliet Shaw, of Section F, has recently been put in charge of instituting procedure across MI5. She walks with purpose, and looks far too attractive for someone so cruel. Her shoes, suit and haircut are sharp and professional, and make Ruth and Jo feel like they should make far more effort for work. She powers across the Grid, snapping her fingers as she goes, and the senior members of staff follow her like dogs: she looks distinctly displeased when she has to say "meeting room" to the rest of Section D (who had been passing the time by playing a series of endless internet quizzes). As they all clatter into the meeting room one after another, Juliet has already begun her speech:

"So. Christmas Holiday procedure." She states, more firmly than is technically necessary, punctuating her point by throwing several files onto the table. "As you well know," she says, "those who had Christmas day off will be working New Year's Day, and on call all night as well." She glances at a list in her hand and turns to glower at Section D: "that means that Harry, Jo, Ruth, and Zaf will be working New Year. At least two of you will have to stay on the Grid for the night – you never know what frivolity can cause, after all."

Karin turns to glance at her team, willing anyone to speak up and volunteer for the most unpopular night's work of the year. After a few moments of awkwardly staring at the table and hoping someone else to speak, Harry and Ruth both say "I'll do it" at almost exactly the same time. Jo has a hard time fighting back her laughter.


	12. Utter tranquil bliss

**A/N: For N&M, because of whom I was nearly forced to up the rating of this chapter. But, let's face it, as certifiably The Second Most Innocent Person On The Planet, it would probably have been a fail anyway... so here's NYE for Harry and Ruth, **_**my**_** way ;)**

**Love x**

* * *

**Twelve**

"_That_ is Juliet Shaw?" Ruth hisses in Harry's ear as they leave the meeting room. "I'm not at _all_ surprised your wife was threatened."

"Really?" Harry asks, utterly confused.

* * *

"Enjoy your New Year's Eve," Jo smiles, hugging Ruth goodnight as she leaves the Grid at six o'clock that night.

"I'm sure you say that entirely innocently," Ruth mutters, "in the 'enjoy playing Scrabble with a friend' sort of way."

"Oh, of course," Jo nods. "What time is your friend getting here, then?"

"I have no idea." Ruth sighs, "but I honestly don't care."

"You seem a lot more... _open_ than you did," Jo observes, with a wry smile.

"Well, it only took me two years," Ruth shrugs. "Besides, who says I'm not just saying all of this to humour you?"

"Your heart." Jo says, pointedly. "Now," she places a hand on each of Ruth's shoulders and looks her friend firmly in the eye, "remember the one rule in all of this: at midnight, on New Year's, one is legally obliged to kiss the nearest member of the opposite sex. On the lips."

"Yeah, thanks for that, Jo!" Ruth laughs, "I'll do my best to remember."

"And you'll tell me everything tomorrow?"

"_Jo!" _Ruth laughs.

"Why?" Jo asks, raising her eyebrows, "what are you expecting to happen?"

"Nothing!" Ruth insists, "now get gone, and I'll see you at nine am sharp, tomorrow!"

* * *

Harry wanders on to the Grid looking slightly dishevelled at ten-past seven that night. It looks like it's been raining a little, because his blonde hair is plastered to his head, and he doesn't seem to be in the best of moods. Ruth supposes that she can't blame him: it is New Year's Eve, and they do have to stay on the Grid, even if there isn't a lot of work to do. She smiles sympathetically up at him as he shrugs his coat off to reveal a black jumper stained with food spills.

"Dinner with Cathy and Graham," he says, by way of explanation, and she nods in understanding. She remembers that they hadn't exactly been the tidiest of children to eat with all too well – or, her favourite jumper dress does, anyway.

"I thought they were with Jane tonight?" she asks.

"They are, but I wanted to take them out for a New Year's meal... have you any idea how stupid that idea was?" he says, with a regretful half-laugh.

"No." Ruth concedes, crossing the grass to stand a little closer to him. She leans back against Zaf's desk, crossing her legs in her favourite bright cherry-coloured tights. Even though she has to work tonight, she decided that it was still New Year's, and that she was still going to wear the little black dress she'd bought for the occasion. She notes with some pleasure the way that Harry's eyes trail from her heels to her face slowly, hovering on her wrist, which wears the bracelet he bought for her for Christmas.

"Well," Harry says, after a moment (or five), "let me tell you, it was an exceptionally stupid idea. Jane insisted on coming."

"_Oh..._"

"Exactly." Harry states, glad that Ruth appears to understand. "It was hell. I've had a horrible evening."

"Not a great end to the year."

"There's still time..."

"There is." Ruth agrees, smiling slightly, as she reaches out to run the pad of her thumb across the stains on his jumper. "The clothing issue can be resolved very quickly, for starters. Pass your jumper here – I'll get those stains out in a second."

"I can do it myself, Ruth," Harry begins, but under her glance he sighs and begins to pull his jumper over his head, handing it to her with a smile. "Thank you." He tells her, hardly noticing the way that she has completely frozen and is staring unashamedly at his chest. Which, he realises a second too late, is bare. That would serve him right for dressing in a hurry.

Suddenly blushing and bashful, Ruth makes her escape, heading for the little kitchenette to scrub the stains out. They don't take long, and she pads as much of the jumper dry as she can with a paper towel before she tentatively makes her way back on to the Grid to pass it to him, smiling up at him from beneath her eyelashses.

"Thank you, Ruth," he says, earnestly, "cup of tea?"

"Maybe something stronger!" she laughs, "I have a bottle of wine in my desk."

"Well," he grins, "that is a coincidence, because I have a bottle of wine in my desk, too."

"Will the Section Chief condone drinking on the job?" she asks.

"Oh, I think just this once. He's not all that bad, you know, Ruth."

"Mmm, someone might have mentioned that once or twice." She concedes, laughing slightly. "Shall I get the glasses?"

"I would if I were you."

A moment later she returns, with two hi-ball tumblers in her hands, as Harry is uncorking the bottle. "Champagne?" she asks.

"Well," Harry smiles, "it is almost the New Year."

He pours them both generous amounts, and clinks his glass with her. "So," he asks, "is anything of any interest happening?"

"Not really." She sighs, "it's going to be a boring night."

"Oh," Harry laughs, "I don't think that's true for one minute!"

"So, what's the plan, then, Harry?"

"I think," Harry says, "that it's time we stole the sofa from Karin's office, and set up camp."

"Camp?" she asks, confused.

"Well," Harry tells her, "I seem to remember that last time you had the chance, you seemed to find my shoulder quite comfortable... and besides, we can use the big screen* as a TV. It's New Year's... there must be something on."

"Probably," Ruth agrees.

* * *

Snuggled up next to Harry, Ruth decides, is exactly where she wants to stay forever. They've successfully 'smuggled' Karin's sofa out of her office and have managed to find a film on television that they can both stomach watching. The main characters are dancing together, to a beautiful, lilting song that neither of them recognise, and the clock tells her that there is still half an hour until midnight.

She can feel his gaze on her, but carries on staring at the screen. After a moment or so, he leans down to whisper in her ear, his breath tickling her skin, and says "dance with me, Ruth."

"Dancing, Harry?" she asks, turning to smile at him, "I didn't have you down as the dancing kind of person."

"I'm just full of surprises, I suppose, Ruth..."

"You are," she breathes, letting him pull her to her feet. He takes one of her hands in his and places the other gently on the small of her back, sending tingles up her spine. She places hers carefully on his shoulder, and their eyes never leave each other's as Ruth realises everything that she's learned about him this week.

For a while, they sway comfortably on the spot, enjoying the feel of each other's arms, but the closeness of their faces soon gets the better of them – and before either of them quite knows what's happening, Ruth's arms are around Harry's neck, and they are kissing like they invented it.

Time ticks by and the New Year ticks ever closer, and they remain rooted to the spot. Their hearts race, and hands roam, and neither of them spares a single thought for the plethora of security cameras which are surely watching their every movement. Time, for them, is standing still. The fireworks which will begin outside very soon are nothing: who needs fireworks and enforced frivolity when there is dancing, and kissing, and happiness, comfort and love.

That 'something special' Harry told her they could have so many years ago has burned away to nothing in minutes; and something so much more than that has taken its place. It's wonderful, beautiful, utter tranquil bliss, and it's more than they ever imagined.

After an eternity which seems to last a second, they break apart, and Harry leans his forehead against Ruth's, breathing heavily and grinning massively. He cups her face in his hands and gently presses his lips to hers once more in a chaste kiss: "I think it's New Year already, Ruth," he whispers.

"Really?" she asks, smiling, "it started perfectly, don't you think?"

"About time, too," he grins. "Perfectly. Yes. Happy New Year, Ruth."

"Happy New Year, Harry."

She pauses for a moment, her eyes intent on his. He knows that she wants to say something else, and he's almost certain that he knows what it is and why she's holding back: "If you say it," he tells her, quietly, "I'll say it back."

"I love you, Harry Pearce." She whispers, into his lips.

"I love you, Harry Pearce," he says, back. She pulls back, shaking her head and laughing:

"That's not what you were supposed to say!" she giggles.

"I said I'd say it back..." he smiles, scooping her up in her arms.

"Hmmm." She pretends to sulk, letting him hold her close and kiss her hair until, eventually, he says "I love you too, Ruth. And I always have."

* * *

When Jo wanders on to the Grid shortly before ten o'clock the next morning, she has no idea of what might greet her. She half expects to be yelled at for turning up an hour late and hung over and she half expects to find Harry and Ruth curled up together naked.

What she finds is neither: they are both fast asleep on Karin's sofa, which has somehow found its way out onto the Grid. Ruth's head is on Harry's shoulder, and Harry's is on Ruth's. His arm is protectively around her, and they seem to be holding hands. Most of all, though, they look peaceful.

She smiles, and walks away: she doesn't want to be the one to wake them from their dream.

* * *

**A/N: One more to come! The start of this annoys me: the end of this sort of got carried away on a wave of tiredness and midnight.**

**Bonus points to those who can spot the two quotes from other TV shows that I kinda sorta mighta totally stole!**


	13. Epilogue: A laden glance

**A/N: I'm pretty sure that this is going to be the end. It sort of makes it look like a sequel is an impossibility, and, much as I might like to write one, there's only so much I can do with this little world. **

**The next challenge is Beth/Dmitri... everyone ships them implicitly, but no one writes them! What is this nonsense, I ask ye?**

**Thank you all for reading and being so supportive – when I started this story, I could never have imagined it might be so popular.**

**Love, hugs and suchlike xxx**

* * *

**Epilogue**

In a normal world, the passage of time is marked with pages in a diary or birthdays or Christmases and New Years. On the Grid, it's marked with funerals, deaths, resignations and an ever-changing team. Slowly, though, over the years, Ruth has begun to come to terms with the way things work. She's getting used to mourning colleagues and to choosing poems for funerals. Much as it pains her, she knows that death and their line of work are intrinsically linked.

Of course, the black line that is time in MI5 does have some brighter days: Joanna and Zaf's wedding; the reappearance of colleagues thought long-lost, whom everyone has missed in Lucas North and, regrettably, Juliet 'The Witch' Shaw; new and wonderful team members in Tariq, Beth and Dmitri; and, occasionally, in the same constants that everyone else has. Christmases have been very similar, these past ten years.

Ruth had never imagined herself having a family, but since that twenty-fourth Christmas, and that gentle, loving New Year on the Grid, she's had one. It's not a conventional family, by any means, but it's hers. Harry, Ruth, Catherine (now very resolutely "Cate") and Graham have shared Christmases and lives for ten, blissful years, now, and each one has been as perfect as the first. Of course, things _have_ changed: Harry's children are no longer children, and Harry no longer has to do all of the cooking for himself. Scarlett has a cat to play with; Fidget has a dog to torment.

Mostly, then, the brighter days have cancelled out the darker ones. Ten years have passed, and they are both still alive. That's always been the main thing.

In their lives, too, there have been darker days. There was that fateful afternoon in a churchyard after a funeral when Harry asked her to marry him, for starters. The look on his face when she said no had almost broken her: but she had always sworn she would never get married – and they didn't need a piece of paper or a pair of rings to tell them they loved each other. _Love_ each other. It hadn't been the same for a while after that, but, slowly, decisions were explained and accepted, and things became the same, but different. They couldn't be more together than they are now, and no one can ever take that away from them.

They live together, now, too. It was a snap decision, almost a month after that wonderful New Year, when Harry noticed how Ruth had barely spent a night at home since, and how Fidget had somehow materialised in his kitchen, he suggested that they make it official. Ruth's little house was only rented, anyway, where as Harry's was owned, entirely, as a gift from a rich grandparent, so it made sense. It still does. It's never made more sense.

Three years ago, the biggest change in their lives (until this afternoon) happened: Karin handed in her resignation. At just forty-five she had been Section D's youngest Head for a long time, and she felt as though she'd done what she had to for her nation. She'd made the money she needed to retire into obscurity, working for the services as a freelance advisor occasionally, and she was happy. That, of course, left a gap: and Harry, although he didn't expect it for a moment, was promoted. The security of a desk job was an immense relief to Ruth – by then, she'd already had to visit the hospital three times to see if he was already dead or not. All of them had been close calls.

Ruth, too, had been offered a promotion, into another team, as Section Chief, despite being a desk analyst. She declined. The Grid was her second home: Section D were her second family. It's not that she lost her ambition: it's that she's got a job she loved, where she is happy. In her eyes, no one could ask for more.

So: this afternoon. The Grid is bored. Dmitri and Beth sit in a corner, flirting, Tariq plays with a new gadget of some kind, and Ruth stares at a computer screen wondering quite how she can put what she has to into words. It takes her a while to realise that Jo, Harry's replacement as Section Chief, is staring at her. "What?" she asks, quietly.

"What's wrong, Ruth?" Jo asks, coming to sit on the side of Ruth's desk, watching her carefully, and trying to read the lines on her face.

"Nothing." Ruth sighs, "I..."

"Is it the HS's party this afternoon?" Jo asks, "you're worried how people will react? You and Harry?"

"No," Ruth smiles – although that is partly why. In the little breaks in their flirting that Beth and Dmitri create in order to give themselves a breather, they've been trying to work out why Ruth Evershed's name is on the guest list for the Home Secretary's birthday party that evening. They've narrowed it down to the fact that she must be "seeing" one of the other people on the list, because she's not part of the security detail, and as they've only been on the Grid a month and a bit, they don't know about Harry and Ruth. Some time ago, a silent pact was made between them that they should keep their relationship under wraps at work, for their own security and privacy, and, miraculously, they've managed to do it well. So much, after all, can be said in a laden glance, and when they're not at work, they have all the time in the world.

"So what is it?" Jo asks, genuinely concerned.

"I'm..." Ruth breathes deeply, pinching two fingers to the bridge of her nose in an attempt to think clearly.

"Ruth..." Jo sighs, "you can tell me. You do know that, don't you?"

"I'mpregant" Ruth whispers, frantically, and so quickly that Jo has to blink a couple of times, thinking hard, before she clocks on, her eyes widening:

"Pregnant?" she asks, a little louder than she intends, and ears all around the Grid prick up. "Sorry!" Jo intones, as she hears Harry's office door opening. A look of utter confusion on his face, he crosses the Grid in a few quick strides, and crouches in front of Ruth's seat, concern etched on his face. Taking her hands in his, he looks up at her, and asks, "really?" in hushed tones. Jo walks away; this moment, between the two of them, is too beautiful, too private, too intimate to be disturbed.

"I... I thi... yes..." Ruth says, a little half-smile on her face. "I... I didn't know how to... tell you..."

"Like this." Harry smiles, leaning up to kiss her briefly on the lips, "this is perfect."

"Perfect." Ruth echoes, still nervous. "You... you're not angry?"

"Why," Harry asks, smiling, "would I be angry? I love you, Ruth Evershed, and I always have. Besides, Cate will be happy. She can babysit." He kisses her again, and this time, she wraps her arms around him and kisses him back, perfectly content.

"Now," Harry says, "don't you have a party to be getting ready for?"

* * *

"_This night is sparkling, don't you let it go__  
__I'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home__  
__I'll spend forever wondering if you knew__  
__This night is flawless, don't you let it go__  
__I'm wonderstruck, dancing around all alone__  
__I'll spend forever wondering if you knew__  
__I was enchanted to meet you"_

_-_ Enchanted, Taylor Swift

* * *

**A/N: Thank you all for reading – one final review would be lovely. xxx**


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